


Bowing to the Roaring Storm.

by CountlessUntruths (KaliCephirot)



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: F/F, Not Canon Compliant, Spoilers for season 2.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-29
Updated: 2010-09-29
Packaged: 2019-02-16 14:50:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13056234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaliCephirot/pseuds/CountlessUntruths
Summary: “You have been asleep for almost a whole month, your Highness,” the other woman says. She's beautiful, Morgana thinks: the way princesses in legends ought to be, with her glossy hair and impossible blue eyes.





	Bowing to the Roaring Storm.

**Author's Note:**

> For [](http://yetanothermask.livejournal.com/profile)[yetanothermask](http://yetanothermask.livejournal.com/), written for [](http://help-chile.livejournal.com/profile)[help_chile](http://help-chile.livejournal.com/).

  


**Bowing to the Roaring Storm.**   
_ _

She can't breathe. She can feel her body trying, but her lungs are trapped inside iron, and it doesn't matter how much they try, she can't breathe and it hurts. It hurts almost as much as having been betrayed by Merlin. The hurt just keeps on mixing, twisting inside Morgana's brain, what's left of her.

She's going to die. Oh God, she's going to die.

She can still feel someone holding her, murmuring to her in a language that is almost familiar and yet Morgana doesn't think she has ever heard it, or maybe she has, but it's difficult to understand anything through the rush of dying blood inside her body, through the rush of panic inside her brain as her whole body crumbles. But she's being held, a small mercy against all this fear, and eventually that person puts her down, typing her head up.

“Stay with me,” the woman murmurs, and then fire on her arms: she's been cut, as if the poison Merlin gave her wasn't enough, as if it needed any help on killing her.

“Tip her head up,” another woman might be saying, and then the soft careful hands of the first woman are holding her head up gently.

“Drink,” the second woman murmurs frantically, and then something bitter is trickling it's way down Morgana's throat, painfully slow.

But then, merciful God, her throat relaxes enough that she can breathe, and her body obeys her again. She can open her eyes away from the darkness and she tries to move away, but the poison is still in her and she's weak. The blood coming out of her arms is tinted black, and the woman... Morgause is still holding her, tears on her eyes, on her face.

And in front of her, a woman Morgana thinks she has seen in her dreams before. She knows her eyes, she's certain of it, the shape of her face. She offers the bowl to her again.

“Finish it,” she says, and Morgana still doesn't have words, the world blurring in the relief of her body singing _alive alive alive alive_ and she falls unto the darkness again.

*

Morgana only remembers fire then, for who knows how long. Fire and her dreams, only her dreams, always her dreams.

Since she started having the dreams that would come true, she hated dreaming. But even from before, Morgana had hated hot the dreams had their own sets of rules, how they changed everything, every little touch, every little memory, everything she ever held dear, how it turned everything into something normal, something to be expected. So it was not surprising to dream about Uther when she had been naught but a child, smiling at her and holding her hand, being as kind as he could be but almost never was, and then, he'd bring out his knife and suddenly stab her and take out her heart, while he still smiled and said that witches didn't deserve to have hearts; or dream about Gwen as she had been when she started being her maid, huge eyes and her hair in a badly done braid, sweet Gwen who gave her wild flowers every week instead giving her a fistful of poisonous snakes because surely witches liked snakes; or Arthur in one of those rare moments when he wasn't being a prat, when he was sweet and kind and gentle, and how very gently he touched her face before he closed his hands around her neck, squeezing until she couldn't breath; or dream about Gaius feeding her poison even though she knew it was poison and she couldn't do anything as her body turned to cinders.

Or now, how she dreams about Merlin crying abover her body, murmuring 'I'm sorry' over and over even as he held her, looking as if he's breaking down, as if he's not the one who is killing her.

And in her weakened state, Morgana has troubles knowing from dreams to _Dreams_ or simply nightmares, has troubles even knowing when she's awake or when she's sleeping. Sometimes there are hands, sometimes she thinks she hears Morgause singing softly, old rhymes that maybe her father sang to her when she was little, and sometimes Morgause's voice and that other woman's voice murmured things that didn't make sense and yet Morgana sometimes thought she must be murmuring them too, sometimes, when her fever was at it's worst.

Through it all there are flowers, sometimes, and the sound of water. Her hands constantly touch cool, wet ground. Morgana can feel the ground beneath her, breathing, murmuring with her, _alive alive alive_. Morgana can feel how the land's strength seems to wrap itself around her. Alive, she thinks. Alive, alive.

The nightmares, eventually, stop.

And one day, she wakes up.

*

There's moonlight, bright like silver, and Morgana is laying on the ground, the scent of wet ground now familiar to her through her sleep. She moves slowly, her body aching. For a moment she feels nauseous as she sits down, her head thrumming. There's a wooden bowl nearby with clear, cool water that feels like ambrosia going down her throat.

She doesn't know where she is, how long has she been here. She crawls forward towards a wall covered in vines, leaning heavily against it. Her gown is blood red, and Morgana fears she might have lost weight, with the way the fabric shifts around her.

Morgana walks on bare, unsteady feet, but with each step it's as if she grew stronger. She can feel the earth between her toes, the grass tickling the sole of her feet. The air seems sweet somehow. Morgana breaths in deeply, and she steps out of the cave, and though her body might still be weak, she doesn't falter.

It's a ceremony, she thinks. There are candles set in a circle which she doesn't break, and Morgause and the woman she thinks she might have dreamed off are standing in front of each other, holding hands, their eyes closed. The two of them are wearing red, a heavy torque around their necks. When they open their eyes, they glow, and that's when Morgana stumbles, falling down to her knees.

Witches.

Morgause is the first one to see her, her guarded expression changing into delight. She smiles, letting go of the other woman's hand, gathering her skirts instead and turning towards her.

“Morgana!” she cries, kneeling by her side. Her eyes are wet with unshed tears. “You are awake, blessing of the solstice.”

“Solstice?” Morgana asks, out of anything else she could have said. She coughs then, doubling over, Morgause's hands rubbing her back.

“You have been asleep for almost a whole month, your Highness,” the other woman says, standing a little behind Morgause, a faint curve to her mouth that Morgana doesn't know how to interpret, if kind or devious. She's beautiful, Morgana thinks. The way princesses in legends ought to be, with her glossy hair and impossible blue eyes. “Although, it's quite proper for you to wake up today of all days.”

“Hush now, Nimueh, Morgana is still tired,” Morgause admonishes, her hand holding Morgana's. She smiles at her. “You have been bed-ridden for a long time, little one. You should rest.”

“I'm better already,” Morgana starts, her voice still weak, but the soft suggestion in Morgause's voice is enough for her to realize just how tired she is. She feels herself crumbling forward, and Morgause's arms are there to hold her, humming gently, so gently, as she lets Morgana rest on her lap.

“We praise thee, o Goddess! Welcome thine daughter into thy embrace!” Morgana hears Nimueh's voice. “Blessed be the Crone, for she has seen what once was and she shall see what will become.

"Blessed be the Mother, for she is now green earth and blue skies.

"And blessed be the Maiden, for hers is the hand that will hold the dagger against thy enemies.”

Morgana falls asleep again.

*

It's morning when she wakes up again, and she's back inside the cave. Sunlight falls against the faded walls, but she's alone again.

Before she can stand up, the other woman, Nimueh, approaches, carrying a tray.

“I was starting to wonder if you'd be up,” she says as a greeting. Morgana can't be sure what she makes of this woman yet, not when she is still part of her dreams where she saw Arthur being killed, but Morgana makes herself not to think about Arthur, or about Camelot at all. It hurts too much.

“How long did I sleep?”

“Almost a whole day,” Nimueh says almost casually. She leaves the tray down, and Morgana's stomach recoils at the thought of food, even something as simple as wild berries and tea. “I promised Morgause that I'd make sure you'd eat, so please, do so. I don't fancy having to argue with her again.”

“Where is she?” Morgana asks, thinking of the other woman, of the way she had seemed so familiar, as if she would remember her if only she tried harder.

Nimueh smiles at her, but Morgana still can't be sure if it's supposed to be mocking or not. “Away for now, but she will come back soon.”

“Why did she go? I didn't even thank her for...”

“Saving your life?” And that hurts, hurts so bad that Morgana has to look down. It's worse than when she and Arthur would fight, worse than any discussion she had with Uther at all. They wanted her dead. They would have killed her, like she knew they would the moment they discovered she had magic.

They wanted her dead.

“You will have your chance for that,” Nimueh says, her voice not unkind, but direct nonetheless. “Morgause knows that I'm a strict teacher, and that I would cast her off if I thought she would interrupt your lessons.”

“Lessons?”

Nimueh sighs, picking up a berry, pressing it against Morgana's lips.

“So you can learn how to control your powers, of course. Now, _eat_. You'd do well to understand that I'm not a terribly patient person.”

Morgana thinks about asking something again, but something in Nimueh's eyes warns her against it Instead she opens her mouth for the berry, bitting into it. It's sweet, almost terribly so, and she closes her eyes to allow herself to enjoy it.

*

Nimueh gives her exactly three days to recover enough to move on her own before her lessons start, and Morgana has no doubts at all that she means exactly three days. Her body feels weak, nothing of that strange feeling she got the night of the solstice, now it's only her with no shoes, her body too thin, having to relearn how to walk without the aid of walls.

She grits her teeth and thinks of how amused Arthur would be to see her, how much he'd laugh as he told her that if she felt like swooning, he would make one of his knights help her up. It's still bittersweet to think about Arthur, a terrible feeling growing inside of her, but thinking about Arthur mocking her means that Morgana pushes herself harder, makes herself take another step and then another.

It's a punishing deal, her body crying out with pins and needles every night, but she doesn't desist. By the third day she's still not at her best, and she dreads thinking what would happen if Nimueh's lessons involve sparring, but she can walk normally and she doesn't gasp for breath when she does so.

“Not bad, milady,” Nimueh says in that tone of hers that is half mocking, half honest. Morgana keeps her chin up. “You might actually be worthy.”

“What lessons?” Morgana asks, a constant question during the past three days.

Nimueh laughs, sounding delighted. “Impatient, too! My, at least it won't be boring.”

Morgana glares, but it doesn't seem to affect the other woman.

Instead, Nimueh moves a hand and the candles around them are brought to life just like that, their fire shining gold and silver.

Nimueh loses her smile, her expression serious.

“How to control your magic, of course.”

*

Nimueh is a fearsome teacher, much harsher than Gaius and his gentle scolding. She wants precise things, believing in teaching her not through pain, but through battle. She doesn't give her books to memorize: during the morning as they walk through this land that seems to be Nimueh's home, Nimueh will tell her about the land, the creatures, how to recognize a poisonous creature from a medicinal one. And during the afternoon, Morgana will have to recall anything and everything she might have learned, since Nimueh might have slipped poison inside her food, or Nimueh will be waiting hidden inside the shadows to throw her a fireball or lightning while she laughs.

Morgana doesn't know what to think of her. She is learning, of course: two months after the lessons had started she doesn't have dreams quite so terrible, but now those visions come during the day as well. And it's true that her strength comes back, and that Nimueh gives her ointments and helps her take care of whatever wound _Nimueh herself_ might have caused.

“Why do you hurry so much?” Morgana asks her one night, while they eat. It's funny, she thinks, how she has gotten over her disgust of eating things she herself hunted. Arthur would never let her live that down.

“There are only four months left before the fall solstice,” Nimueh says, her legs bare against the summer heat. She's done eating, mostly, but she keeps bitting at the wild strawberries they found earlier today. “You _won't_ be completely ready by then, but you should, at least, be able to defend yourself.”

“Is something happening, then?” Morgana asks, putting what's left of her hare down, her stomach churning.

“It's already happening,” Nimueh utters darkly, sitting down. “Albion won't stand much longer for a false king.”

Uther. Morgana feels her stomach tightening again. She hates him, she knows she does... and yet.

“You are talking about war,” she says. She remembers Arthur, when he used to come back from campaigns. He wouldn't cry but for weeks and months after his eyes would be terribly dark, his expression not so much as sour as empty. Morgana never dared to ask what Arthur had seen, that haunted him so.

“I'm talking about overthrowing the tyrant that has murdered us for the last twenty years,” Nimueh says, her voice imposing. The flames flare at her unspoken command. “I'm talking about hundreds, possibly thousands of people who have been lost to Uther Pendragon's bloodlust. I'm talking about revenge against the murdered mother.”

Nimueh seems to control herself after that, as if her anger had made her speak more than she intended. Morgana frowns.

“Murdered mother? Whose?”

Nimueh looks away. “Plenty a child have lost their parents to Uther's insanity.”

“But it seemed as if it was someone you knew,” Morgana stands up only so she can move towards Nimueh, sitting down besides her. “Your mother?”

“My mother was lost long before you were born, Morgana Le Fay,” Nimueh says with a smile that is barely a shadow of her usual one. “The one I lost to Uther was mother to someone else.”

“Please, tell me,” Morgana asks. There's something terribly sad and lonely inside Nimueh's eyes, something that churns inside her.

“... once you know, there is no turning back,” Nimueh warns her. Her eyes seem so dark like this, nothing of the impossible blue they usually are.

“There is no turning back now,” Morgana says, angry, perhaps, at the suggestion that Nimueh thinks that she will go running back towards Uther, towards her would-have-been murderers. “Tell me.”

Nimueh looks at her for long, long minutes before she takes her face with both hands. Her eyes shine like gold and before Morgana can question her about this, her mouth is against hers.

There is only a moment to be surprised about the softness of Nimueh's lips against her, because then there are pictures and voices and--

_(Golden hair and a pretty smile, Arthur's blue eyes and his easy grin on a female face. And Uther, impossibly younger, more handsome and without as many scars on his face, his hair still mostly black._

_And there is Nimueh as well, Nimueh as she is today, except for the way her smile is somehow less devious, as she smiles at the woman who Morgana knows is Ygraine. )_

It's almost as if her head was about to burst open. She sees a Ygraine twining fingers with Nimueh, the way she used to do with Gwen when they were younger, the way she still did when no-one was paying enough attention; Nimueh and Uther talking with a younger looking Gaius looking grim, talking about prices to pay, life for a life; and then there's Ygraine pregnant and happy, so happy that she seemed to miss the darkness hidden in the king's eyes; and then Ygraine dying after she gives birth to Arthur, with Uther screaming betrayal at Nimueh, attacking her.

There are tears on her face when Nimueh breaks apart, and Nimueh's eyes are on hers. Morgana thinks her heart might break down.

“He...” she starts, but she's sobbing, trembling. “He knew! He knows that magic is not what he makes and still he... _his own wife_... and Arthur...!”

“The prince's only fault is believing his father's lies,” Nimueh says, her voice harsh. Her hands are still holding her face. “But if he is his mother's child, then, that won't last.”

Morgana can't think, can barely speak. She's still crying, feeling the way her heart beats painfully inside her, and the only think she can think of is the way Nimueh's eyes seem so lonely all of the sudden, and how different they had been before Ygraine had been murdered by her own husband.

So Morgana doesn't stop herself to think and instead she just leans forward, pressing her lips against Nimueh's again, and this time, this time there wasn't heartbreak through memories, nor she felt the way Nimueh had felt before. This time there was only the way Nimueh shivered as if cold before she was kissing back, over and over, and when Nimueh closed her eyes, Morgana did the same thing.

*

She wakes up when she feels Nimueh moving for the bed, still naked. Morgana sits too, reaching for her gown. It's Nimueh who doesn't seem to find shame at walking with no clothes, but Morgana hurries to put her clothes on, following her.

She's looking at the dawning sky, but her eyes are looking beyond that, Morgana knows that now. And she, too, can feel it. There's a wind from the North coming on, whispering about changes, and the goddess favors those changes with blood.

“There is a storm coming,” Nimueh says. She turns towards her, her eyes serious. “Do you know where you stand against it?”

“With my kind,” Morgana assures before she, too, smiles in a devious way. “That was an easy one. Are you being soft with me, now?”

Nimueh laughs as she turns around. Morgana can see the mark of her teeth and nails down Nimueh's pale skin and she feels herself flush.

“I,” Nimueh says, almost as an afterthought. “I'm taking a bath. Since you are already up, you can get our breakfast.”

“Is that all?” Morgana says, turning towards the cave to get her knife.

Nimueh looks at her over her shoulder, an eyebrow raised as she smiles.

“If you are quick, come and find me.”

This time, Morgana laughs.  



End file.
